


Future in Progress

by orphan_account



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Babies, Baby Names, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Sexism, F/M, Fourth Age, Misunderstandings, Motherhood, Politics, Post-Canon, Postpartum Depression, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-24 11:13:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8370061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There were many births in the first year of the Fourth Age, but three were of particular significance, not only to their mothers but to Middle-earth.





	

Éowyn pulled the shawl more tightly around her shoulders and considered her sleeping, still nameless son. She tried to feel something, anything, for the child, but no matter how hard she tried, all she could feel was tired and sore and (worst of all) somewhat disappointed.

All her life she had heard from mothers that there was an instant connection with their newborn child, a sudden clarity to the world, but Éowyn had felt none of that when the midwife handed her this child. There had been a moment of satisfaction that her first child was a son whose birth neatly secured the future of the new principality of Ithilien, but the satisfaction had faded when she realized she felt nothing else.

This utter lack of feeling reminded her sharply of being in the Houses of Healing after the Battle of Pelennor Fields, and that discomforted her.

She had no excuse for her thoughts. Éowyn had known since childhood that she would be a wife and mother someday, though she had wished for glory on the battlefield more than motherhood, for Théoden had no daughter and only one niece (due to her aunts' poor efforts). She was lucky for Faramir, she knew, who not only provided an alliance for Rohan but who loved her and was loved by her in return. There could be no kinder destiny for her or for any noble daughter.

Yet she felt nothing for his child, and her disappointment turned into guilt.

She had only been seven years old when her mother died, but she remembered how fiercely Théodwyn had been devoted to her children. Only that fever could have stolen her from them. What would she think of her daughter now?

Éowyn took a deep breath.

Down the hall slept Idis and Lothíriel, who had held her hand and bathed her brow during the long hours of labor. Éowyn had not missed the longing look Théodred's widow had cast the child. Idis would hate her if she knew of Éowyn's cold heart. She and Théodred had tried so hard to conceive a child, and here Éowyn cared not for the child who had come so easily.

Lothíriel too had expressed a strong desire for children, but she had been married to Éomer for only a few months, not fourteen years. Would she hate Éowyn or pity her? Either was abhorrent, but so was Éowyn's ignorance of her sister-in-law's character.

The door opened, and Éowyn smiled at the sight of her husband. "You should not be awake, let alone standing," he scolded gently.

"And you, my lord, are not to visit my chambers for six weeks," she teased. His eyebrows rose, and she looked away. "I was considering names."

He knew her for a liar, but he did not accuse her. He took a step closer, to stand beside her before the cot. "What name does his lady mother find suitable?" he asked.

They had discussed the matter before the birth, several times since they learned of her pregnancy. "The heir to the Steward and the Prince of Ithilien must have a Gondorian name," Faramir had told her, apologetically, months ago. A daughter, or a second son, might bear a name from his mother's people, but not this one.

Together they had poured over the history of his house, to find names that pleased them and which belonged to neither villains nor victims, but none of those names suited their newborn son particularly well. He resembled a walnut more than a hero. She almost laughed at the thought of calling him "Cirion" or "Belecthor."

"None of the names we discussed will do." She tried to think of an appropriately motherly reason why. "He must have a name of his own."

"Then what will his mother name him?"

Éowyn had hoped Faramir would shoulder the burden. He was the father and the loremaster, not she, but he had given her the duty.

Éowyn's command of the Grey Elven tongue was far from perfect, as her grandmother delighted in telling her repeatedly, but it would serve for this.

A Gondorian name was in truth an Elvish name, either in imitation or aspiration, so it ought to be something about the stars, the sea, or the trees. It ought to honor Faramir's family as well, even though it was not drawn from their history, but she could not forgive Denethor for the harm he had done her husband, even if Faramir had.

She had liked Boromir, though, even if Éowyn had barely known him, because he had been Théodred's friend, and Faramir was devoted to his brother's memory.

She tested several variations mentally before she at last said aloud, "Elboron."

Éowyn could be the mother of an Elboron.

She could teach him how to ride his first pony and correct his stance when he started playing at swords with sticks, and her knowledge of herbcraft would, by then, be enough that she could instruct him in that too. There might even be a sister or a brother toddling at his heels by then — or both.

Faramir's smile was like the sun. "That will suit him very well. He must grow into it, for it is a hero's name, but he is fortunate enough to have a hero for a mother. Undoubtedly he will rely upon your tutelage in such arts."

"Then will his lord father teach him nothing?" she asked him with mock seriousness.

"His father will teach him how to rule and how to lead men into battle, but those are bitter lessons to learn. He will love his mother the better in contrast, for her lessons shall never lack excitement and entertainment."

"I cannot imagine that anything learned at your knee will lack entertainment, no matter how dull the subject matter."

Faramir flushed at her innuendo, and she did not doubt that he mourned the six further weeks of celibacy. "Elboron might have a different opinion when he is older."

"He shall not." Éowyn would not allow it.

 

* * *

 

The world stilled as Estel placed their son in her arms, freshly washed and sleeping sweetly. "Eldarion," Arwen breathed. She had seen her son before, in so many visions that this almost felt like a memory, and were it not for the lingering soreness and exhaustion, Arwen could believe this a vision too.

Estel's smile was as ecstatic and awestruck as her own.

Mistress Ioreth allowed the family a moment of peace before resuming her typical chatter. "Such a beautiful child he is, Your Grace! And such a quick birth! I entered the King's House prepared to tell you that it would be some hours yet (and so I must tell all women, with their first), but you just lay down on the bed and here is the prince — as though it were nothing at all!"

Arwen had trained as a healer under her father, and she had attended many births during her long life, of both Elves and Men, though her primary occupation was that of a needlewoman. She knew that the labor had gone faster than that of a Man but slower than that of an Elf, but neither race would have found it an exceptional length.

"I did more than that," she protested, in good spirits.

"Certainly, certainly, but you cannot deny that it was an easy birth. I thought that the king was mad — I beg your pardon, sire — when he came to the Houses of Healing this morning. 'Mistress Ioreth,' he said to me, 'will you come to the queen's chambers with me? She is in labor.' 'Of course, my king,' I said, 'Shall I go and fetch the midwives?' 'No indeed!' said he. 'You and I shall serve well enough.' And so we did."

"And so you did." Arwen had to fight a smile at the sight of Estel rolling his eyes behind the woman's back. Ioreth had a good heart and gentle hands, but silence was her enemy — or perhaps she was the enemy of silence.

Ioreth barely noticed her interjection as she monologued. "Those who doubted you shall soon learn their error. Three years is not too long to wait for so fine a prince."

"Forty-two years," she corrected mildly, but with a sly look for her husband. He deserved all the teasing in the world, especially now that she was the only one willing to tease him.

"Well, that is long! Prince Eldarion would be the same age as the steward (or near it) and be giving you grandsons now, had you wed then." Ioreth now realized her familiarity and added, "But grandchildren will come in their own time, and in the meantime, there will be more princes."

"Princesses," Estel said firmly. Had he a vision of his own?

Color infused the old woman's cheeks. "Princesses, too. Gondor will be glad of princesses as well."

She at last fell silent, for the last thing Estel's first and most faithful subject wanted was upset him. Her temporary speechlessness was the king's chance. Estel gave the healer his compliments and his thanks, with a strong hint that it was time for her to leave, and for once, Ioreth understood a hint.

Her embarrassment surely died in the queen's antechamber where Arwen could hear her ladies press the healer for fresh news of their queen and prince.

This caused Arwen to suddenly recall that one of her handmaidens had not returned since Arwen sent her to inform the king that it was time. "Where is Rhoswen?" she asked.

Estel turned away to pull off his boots. "She found me at council, and I did not wish to dismiss my advisors early and with little accomplished. So I appointed her my deputy. Prince Faramir is still in Ithilien, after all, and she is a suitable substitute. Rhoswen and Niphredil her sister are my nearest kin in Gondor, and their sister Bânneth serves as my steward in Arnor. Who better?" He climbed into bed beside her, and he pressed a kiss to their sleeping son's forehead.

"You are cruel, to Rhoswen and to your councilors."

Recently, the Arnorians had begun to push for Estel to declare equal succession as there had been in Númenor of old, but the Gondorians pushed back. The debate was a tiring one, conducted in letters written between Bânneth and the Gondorian councilors, and Arwen was torn between gratitude that her first child was a son and a perverse dismay that it had not been a daughter. Some part of her wanted a firstborn who she might name "Silmariën," or "Fíriel," on whose behalf she might fight for the rights denied to her namesake. — But, no. Arwen and Estel had faced enough challenges, and they would face more yet. Let this be Eldarion's fight, not theirs.

Estel's thoughts were of a different nature than hers. "I am sorry that he will never meet your parents," he said suddenly.

"Nor yours." But Arwen knew his meaning. Arathorn and Gilraen were dead, but Elrond and Celebrían were alive, in the Blessed Realm, with Galadriel her grandmother and an army of relations who Arwen herself had never met and now never would. She could not even show Eldarion (or his sisters) golden Lothlórien where she had spent so many happy years. "My brothers and my grandfather will be here in the autumn. That will be enough."

Celebrían would have been in Minas Anor for months already, were she able, bright and cheerful, deluging Arwen with advice and affection when she wasn't discomforting the Men with her teasing. ("It is too much fun," she had once confided in Arwen, after making King Valandil go scarlet.)

Arwen more often mourned her father's absence. It was the fresher hurt, and Elrond and his daughter were more similar in their character and tastes. Yet, today she did not. Today Celebrían's loss was like an open wound.

"Eldarion will never know his grandparents," she said steadily, "but we will tell him of them. That will have to serve."

 

* * *

 

Lothíriel's bedroom was filled with noisy, boisterous people, all of them dark-haired and grey-eyed but one. Certainly, her family was not normally _this_ demonstrative, but they were by no means a cold people. Proud, mannerly, and self-possessed, perhaps, but never _cold_  — despite what the people of the Mark thought of their queen.

Lothíriel was accustomed to the noise. They were not always celebrating the birth of a prince, but her brothers and the children and grandchildren of her aunt Ivriniel and her mother's brothers often found some cause or another to celebrate when thrust together.

Her smile fell. Amrothos had often been the center of such celebrations. The youngest of her brothers had always been quick with a jape or a laugh, whatever was required of him, but he was gone now.

Her father saw her frown, but he did not know the reason. "Out, out," Imrahil said. He began shepherding them out of the queen's chambers. "Everyone must go. Lothíriel needs her rest."

"Even me?" Her mother held Elfwine in her arms, and she had taken him to each relation in turn, demanding, "Isn't he the finest baby you have ever seen?" She would allow no polite demurrals because "it is not every day that one's youngest child has her eldest."

Imrahil's gaze was distinctly fond as he looked upon his wife of thirty-seven years. "Especially you, Meldis."

Meldis clicked her tongue. Lothíriel hoped that she would lay Elfwine down in his cot, but instead she placed him in Éomer's outstretched arms before joining the family exodus.

"I never appreciated before how large your family is," the king said after they had all gone.

Lothíriel had nothing to say to that. "Oh?" Having them all crowded into her room was less oppressive to her than the army of midwives who had been in there earlier. Lothíriel had hoped for no more than two midwives and a healer, like Éowyn had when she bore Elboron, because she certainly could not expect Éomer to deliver her child as Elessar had done for Undómiel. Her request had been denied, harshly. All the healers of high enough stature in the Mark were men, and no man but her husband could see the queen in such a state.

Lothíriel had bitten her tongue to keep from saying, "That is probably why Queen Elfhild died."

Éomer readjusted his hold. "I am sorry that no kinswomen of mine could attend you during the birth, but I have so few. Éowyn is still too weak to travel, and Idis would not leave her — and my grandmother and my aunt Elfflæd swore to never return to the Mark after my grandfather's death."

Lothíriel knew too well the story of Morwen of Lossarnach, who was distant kin to her as well as her husband's grandmother, but she had ignored it when Imrahil approached her about the marriage because she desired a crown and because she liked Éomer. She had believed that he would support her against the whispers of his people, but only now did she realize that a dozen meetings, a handful of conversations, and a couple dances were not enough to get the measure of a man.

What would he say if she confronted him now? She could retort that he did have more kinswomen than that, aunts and cousins on his father's side and another surviving aunt on his mother's. They had all given their excuses, however, because they wished to avoid the appearance of supporting the unpopular, foreign queen.

She refrained. "I did not notice their absence, not with my mother and my sisters-in-law, and my aunts and cousins."

Éomer glanced at her sharply. He was far more skilled than he pretended at ferreting out the truth from lies, or from polite nothings. It often served him well in Gondor.

He stared at her for a moment before returning his attention to Elfwine. "Your mother was right," he said.

"About what?" It was tantalizing vague. Meldis was frequently right, but Lothíriel had a daughter's prerogative to forget all instances as soon as they occurred.

"He _is_ an uncommonly handsome infant. Elboron looked like a walnut when he was first born."

Lothíriel sat up in her bed, surprised and curious. "Why did you name him 'Elfwine'?"

It had seemed like an insult, for her and her son. Every Rohir who had seen the prince so far did not fail to comment on his dark hair and sea-grey eyes, with barely concealed disapproval, and a name that ostensibly honored Lothíriel's ancestry had felt like yet another javelin — and one from his own father, at that.

Maybe she had misunderstood him. His expression was fond as he looked upon Elfwine.

The question was at once too sudden and too belated. She should have asked as soon as she heard the name, but her temper had gotten the better of her. "I thought to honor Queen Undómiel and Legolas of Ithilien, as well as your father. I know how proud he is of your descent from the Lady Mithrellas." Éomer's brow was furrowed. "What would you have named him, had you the choice?"

In Gondor as well as Rohan, a father named his children. Lothíriel had never bothered to think up names for her prospective children, for it was foolhardy to raise her hopes so. "Galador, I suppose," she said after a moment's thought. She had always favored the stories of the earliest Lords of Dol Amroth.

Éomer sat beside her on the bed, Elfwine shifting in his arms. "I am sorry that our children cannot have Gondorian names."

That was a small price to pay for companionship and a crown. "Do you think it such a hardship?" She smiled. "We must have many children, to ease that grief. We must repeople the House of Eorl, after all, and I demand at least three daughters in return for my services."

"Shall I demand three further sons in exchange for mine, or must I be content with Elfwine?"

Lothíriel laughed.


End file.
